


snowfall

by dreamsdark



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: College AU, Hypothermia, M/M, Secret Santa, perfectworldshipping - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 16:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsdark/pseuds/dreamsdark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because hypothermia is totally the way to go with getting to know each other. Or maybe he's just stupid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	snowfall

**Author's Note:**

> um...i don't even know...I tried? AND FAILED AHAHAHA--ok i shut up now  
> funfact: this is college AU. yay

“Hello? You awake, Lys?” Lysandre doesn’t even move, so Augustine tries again, shaking him. “Ly _san_ dre! Do you _want_ to catch pneumonia?”  
  
Lysandre blinks his eyes open, very slowly. “...Augustine?”  
  
“ _Yes_! What did you _think_ you were doing?” He huffs, sitting next to him, shivering when he touches the cold wood of the bench.  
  
“I was...waiting? For someone,” he finishes, fully awake and cold.  
  
“I meant _sleeping_! You could’ve...hypothermia!”  
  
“It’s not that cold,” Lysandre scoffs, but shudders. His ears are red from the biting wind, and his thin jacket isn’t helping much.  
  
Augustine smirks. “Right. Who?” He blows air into his hands, watching his breath turn into mist.  
  
“A _friend_.”  
  
“Some friend they are, if they’ve stood you up for...how long?” He buries himself into his scarf, closing his eyes. Lysandre’s jealous for a fleeting moment, stopping himself from shivering again.  
  
“I don’t know.” How long had he been out? It looked like early evening, but he couldn’t quite remember when he had first gotten here.  
  
“Don’t...know? What, a watch too unfashionable for you?” Augustine reaches out to touch his cheek, but Lysandre flinches back. He drops his hand down, mittened hands warm on his neck. “And scarves?”  
  
Lysandre finds himself unconsciously leaning into the touch, suddenly tired. “‘S not that...”  
  
“Don’t fall asleep on me!” Lysandre already has his eyes closed, breathing slower. Augustine huffs, moving away. “Fine, then. _Leaving_.” Walking purposefully to his car, he doesn’t look back, not even once.  
  
It’s only when he already has his key in the ignition that he looks back at the only splash of bright orange against winter’s white and gray backdrop. He sighs and unlocks the door.  
  
Lysandre looks almost pathetic, flushed red from the cold. His breath comes out as white mist, and the small noises he makes are almost cute— _um_. “If you _think_ I’m carrying you...” Lysandre shifts, attempting to curl up even more into his thin jacket. “No. _Nonononono_. You can’t make me do this, Lys.” He shakes him violently, but Lysandre still doesn’t open his eyes.  
  
“You don’t give me nearly enough for this...” Augustine slings him over his shoulder, intending to carry him back— _kind of like a movie? That’s...kind of funny, actually._  
  
He doesn’t even make it standing upright before his legs give out and he crashes down, Lysandre landing on him with a painful thump. “Getch’ff!”  
  
“Aug...ustine?”  
  
“That’s me!” he beams, but his forehead creases in worry; Lysandre’s voice is hoarse, and he sounds so tired...  
  
“Y’were gonna leave...” Whatever flash of energy he had is gone, so he slumps into the cold snow. Augustine brushes the snow off both of them, smiling, and settles for dragging him across the snow.  
  
 _We must look ridiculous._  
  
-  
  
Augustine hums along to the radio—old and static-y, but a gift from an estranged mother is hard to throw out—almost dancing as he readies his coffee. He’s not even sure why; the coffee always tastes like someone stuck a dead ferret in the machine and there hasn’t been a single day he hasn’t burned himself.  
  
“Even with that piece of crap, you still manage to find her?” Augustine jumps and spills hot coffee over his shirt.  
  
“She is a perfectly good singer, much better than you—my shirt!” Somehow, his anger’s clouded the fact that his sweater is soaked and uncomfortably hot. “Stay there.” He huffs and storms to the bathroom.  
  
Lysandre sighs, pressing a palm to his forehead, feeling something—cold? He pulls it off, opening the wet towel to find almost-melted ice cubes. “Am I...” He breaks off with a sneeze.  
  
“Sick? I thought that was obvious.” Augustine walks back into the room with a new sweater, red and green and disgustingly festive. It looks pretty good on him, though, too good—”Want some soup or something?”  
  
“And trust you in the kitchen? How about... _no_.” He barks out a short laugh but winces when that escalates into a short coughing fit. Augustine hands him a small glass of water which he downs gratefully. “Thank you.”  
  
“What, you gonna starve?”  
  
“Better than eat—” he coughs “—the shit you make.”  
  
“Oh! The Great Lysandre thinks my cooking is shit! What shall I ever do?” Augustine leaves abruptly, heading to the kitchen.  
  
Lysandre feels a twisted satisfaction— _yes, leave me alone_ —and dozes off, nuzzling into the soft—  
  
“Stay awake!” He actually falls out the sofa, dragging the blanket with him.  
  
Augustine snickers. “Karma, hm?” He helps him up anyway, pressing a spoonful of soup to his lips. “Open wide!”  
  
Lysandre bats it away, Augustine barely managing to save his rug. “I’m not an invalid, Augustine.”  
  
“No, I just enjoy seeing you in demeaning positions,” he says, and pushes the spoon into his mouth.  
  
It’s hot but not scalding, and the way it warms him from inside-out is a sensation he’ll never let go of. “You made this?” The soup isn’t fancy-restaurant grade, a little thin and salty, but edible.  
  
“Contrary to popular belief,” he starts, setting down the bowl for Lysandre to take, which he does gratefully. “I can cook, just not when I’m practically drugged.”  
  
“...drugged?” Admittedly, Lysandre had only eaten something he’d made once; undercooked brownies with bad eggs, lumpy batter and a complete mess. He probably shouldn’t have judged him by that one incident...if he hadn’t gotten food poisoning.  
  
“Severe allergies. I could barely see my hands!”  
  
“Oh. _Why were you even standing_.”  
  
“You dared me to!” he screeches in his ear. Lysandre flinches back, and Augustine relaxes. “Sorry. You wanna take a hot bath?”  
  
“That, that would be nice...”  
  
-  
  
Augustine’s clothes barely fit him, so Lysandre waits in a constricting hoodie and way-too-skinny jeans while he washes his snow-dampened clothes. “Take them while they’re warm,” Augustine says, tossing the clothes to him.  
  
“Thanks,” he mutters, still not exactly use to the sudden display of kindness. Not that he and Augustine were _enemies_ , but they always fought about the tiniest things, from if a war is ever justified or if Lysandre’s hair could cut onions (spoiler alert: it can’t). Lysandre glances around the room, taking in its apparent emptiness. “You have an apartment with a guest room?”  
  
“I used to share it with a few people but...they left.” Augustine looks down at his feet, playing with his fingers. “Wasn’t staying here long anyway, so I kept it.” He sounds almost lonely, and Lysandre wants to take him in his arms and kiss it away.  
  
Or probably sneeze it away, given the circumstances. Whatever worked. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Headache and my nose is trying to run a marathon. I’m fine,” he adds, catching the small flash of worry.  
  
“You sure...I’ll be in that room, call if you need me?” Augustine stumbles over the last part of the sentence, a blush creeping up his neck.  
  
He slams the door before Lysandre can say a word.  
  
-  
  
Augustine wakes up in the middle of the night, jolting at something cold press into the back of his neck. He doesn’t even get halfway up before a pair of strong arms drag him back down. “L-Lys?”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“Why...”  
  
Lysandre pulls Augustine flush against him, which turns him redder than Lysandre’s own hair. “It was cold,” he whispers, breath warm on his neck.  
  
“And this—this is...awkward!”  
  
“Oh.” Even in the dark, Augustine can sense Lysandre’s brilliant blues open a crack. “Should I leave?”  
  
“Of course—” Augustine shifts just a tiny bit, cuddling—cuddling? What were they doing, anyway?—into him. “Not. Yes. That. Uh...”—and doesn’t he just look like an idiot—  
  
“I get it.” Lysandre laughs, quiet enough to send butterflies into his stomach. “Thank you, Augustine.”  
  
“It’s…” Lysandre's already asleep (which is really getting repetitive) so there goes any chance of getting out of this. Augustine sighs, pressing back against him and curling his fingers into his palm. “…nothing.”

It’s a scene straight out of a cheap romance, and Augustine couldn’t have been happier.

**Author's Note:**

> forgive me i have failed you


End file.
